A writer writes.  
A writer writes when he wants to
and when he doesn't.  
A writer writes when he is inspired
and when he isn't.  
A writer writes when the words are flowing from his mind like moisture off of a waterfall
and when the words are as scarce as republicans in Boston.  
A writer writes because he is a writer,
not because there are people who will cheer him on when he is finished.  
Sure, most writers dream of the cheers,
but a writer who will be a writer tomorrow
is one who writes even when the fans don’t show up.  
A writer writes when everything looks hopeless
and when everything is falling into place.  
A writer writes as a baby coohs.  
A writer writes as a child plays.  
A writer writes as a teenager dreams.  
And a writer writes as a grownup worries.  
A writer isn't a writer because he was chosen.  
A writer writes because it is what he has chosen.  
What does a writer write when the words are scarce?  
Many scarce words.  
What does a writer write when the words are abundant?  
Words in abundance.  
A writer doesn't wait for inspiration to hit,
he writes until inspiration catches up with him.  
A writer doesn't write only when the muse is on duty,
he writes until the muse feels shamed and shows up.  
A writer does not seek fame,
though fame often seeks writers.  
A writer does not seek fortune,
though fortune too often seeks writers.  
A writer doesn't seek anything but the satisfaction of writing,
for fame and fortune are fickle and writing only for them leads to many a blank page.  
If I write something meaningful and it is not accepted,
is it no longer meaningful?  
If I write words never before combined,
will people rave over my originality,
or complain about my lack of skill?  
I am a writer and so it doesn't really matter.

He writes poetry
But no one knows

He writes poetry
He writes about love
And loss

He writes about smiles
And frowns

He writes about sorrow
And forgotten towns

He writes about how lost he gets
Caught up in his own mind

He writes poetry to
And about others

But no one knows

Know one knows the depth of his soul
Because they all choose to see the exterior
And that exterior screams

Preppy
And preppy
Don't have souls

Or so they thought
Until the day he was consumed
By his own poetry

He writes poetry like it is the air he breathes
he chokes on his own words and trips on his sentences
And stumbles over his paragraphs.
He writes like it is the only thing keeping him sane,
And maybe it is.
He writes like he’s running out of time—
Like he can’t possibly finish everything
He has to write about
In the time he has left—
Like all that mattered was him
And the words that filled up
The pages of his journal messily.
He writes until there is nothing left to write about.
He writes about everything and nothing:
Heartache and happiness,
The waves and the shore . . .
He writes about the things he can never say out loud.
He writes about the worlds he wants to live in.
He writes and he writes and he writes
Until there is nothing left to his life but words and sentences and paragraphs and stories.
But you see, no matter how many universes he creates
Or how many tales he writes about
He can never escape
The gruelling reality
Of his world—
Bleak and gray as it is to him.
He looks to poetry for refuge,
Thinks that maybe words
Were his own personal weapon.
And why not?
His words built up mountains and created castles in the sky,
And he knew the same words were unerring tools of destruction
That could tear apart the strongest mountains with a few
Well-crafted sentences.
He thinks that maybe if he wanted for anything,
He could write it into existence.
So he writes.
Poem after story after poem—
All about her,
Hopefully and naively thinking
That maybe if she read them
She’d know
About the nights he spent writing her name over and over
On the sheets of paper on his desk
Like a personal prayer
Hoping it would be enough to bring her back to him
But he wakes up alone every morning anyway
And learns that words can only do so much.
He knows now that no matter how many passages he repeats
Or how many times he writes his words down over and over
Poetry doesn’t always set things right
But it does add some beauty to the world.
His words do hold some kind of power over something
And that, he thinks, is beautiful.
It is beautiful.
And he thinks maybe this is something he’s meant to do.
So he writes.